


Wild Card's Rule

by SeprithLiCastia



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Character Death, Gen, Independent New Vegas (Fallout), No Romance, Philosophy, Politics, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Hoover Dam, Rivalry, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2020-01-14 16:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18479755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeprithLiCastia/pseuds/SeprithLiCastia
Summary: Following the Second Battle for Hoover Dam, the "Courier King" attempts to establish New Vegas and the Mojave Wasteland as an independent power; all the while dealing with a looming N.C.R. threat, tensions with the Brotherhood of Steel, and a people in chaos. Winning the battle was only the prologue of this story! (Independent New Vegas, M!Courier)





	1. No Gods, No Masters

**Author's Note:**

> One of my older story ideas. Since canon does not really tells us much past the first few weeks, I wondered how an independent New Vegas could really be shaped... Guess we will see.
> 
> I got a couple chapters of this already worked out, but try and leave either a comment or a Kudos so I know you are interested. Make sure to share as thoughts, theories, or things you might be interested in seeing, too.
> 
> This will be the only chapter that takes place during the actual game -- flash-backs notwithstanding. I wanted to take the time to set up this Courier and the setting before jumping into the story proper, so expect that next chapter.

* * *

 

_"Destiny; destiny is an interesting thing. Whether you believe in it or not doesn't really matter. It all ends the same either way."_

\- Solomon Abel, the Courier -

 

* * *

 

  **Chapter One:** _No Gods, No Masters_

 

The wind; it was, perhaps, the only sound drifting through the air.

 

Of course there was also the sound of the alarm that had first begun blaring from who knows where after Solomon Abel -- better known simply as "the Courier" -- had first opened the door leading to the antechamber of the Lucky 38's "penthouse" suite.

 

However, here on the walk-way that would lead to what was undoubtedly his "destiny" -- whether he believed in fate or not was moot at this point -- the only thing he could hear was the wind.

 

' _Strange,_ ' he idly thought. ' _That the wind is all I hear._ '

 

He could not explain it; by all rights the alarm should be the loudest sound to reach him, but right now, for whatever reason, only the wind echoed.

 

Taking a step off the elevator, black shoes connected with the steel flooring sending a reverberating chime of metal through-out the walk-way. Stepping off the well-maintained Lucky 38 elevator was a relatively young man in his mid-twenties with chestnut colored hair that framed his lightly tanned face. Calm contemplating eyes the color of ice gazed forward, all the while checking his peripheral vision for any signs of threats.

 

He wore a faded black business suit with a pale red tie that still looked oddly clean for the wasteland; as if all the dirt had recently been brushed off.

 

' _Which it had,_ ' the Courier thought. He had first chosen to wear it when he had been invited to visit Mr. House in the infamous Lucky 38 casino building just four days ago as it had been the finest clothing he owned at the time and it felt appropriate. Regardless of the nature of his business with the great Mr. House the man had earned the right for all his guests to be well dressed. Or, at least, that was Solomon Abel's opinion on the matter.

 

It may sound strange, but the Courier had seen fit to "dress up" for his current meeting, too. While his previous conversation with the esteemed Mister Robert Edwin House had not gone well -- having been attacked by his Securitron guards after refusing to hand over the Platinum Chip -- the truth of the matter was Solomon Abel respected the great Mr. House for all he has accomplished, both past and present.

 

The last piece of notable attire adorned by the Courier was a small, unmodified 10mm pistol holstered on his right hip, but this "accessory" caused a sour look to grace his normally neutral countenance. He knew what it would soon be used for.

 

If he was being entirely honest with himself then he would admit that four days ago, when Mr. House had first invited him into the Lucky 38, he had intended to apologize for losing his package -- the all-important Platinum Chip. Three days ago he had intended to see the ever-allusive "Benny of the Chairmen" and settle a personnel score in direct relation to two bullet holes -- one of which was still currently embedded in Solomon's head somewhere -- before bringing the Platinum Chip to Mr. House; thus completing the most adventurous delivery of his life.

 

However, after having dealt with Benny -- the thought that the fool had believed he could talk his way out of the well-deserved death he was now left with was enough to return the apathetic mask he more commonly wore -- and recovering the Platinum Chip, a quick search of the now deceased Benny's apartment had led to... interesting options in the form of a helpful robot who just could not say no, ever.

 

Now, back in the present, all he heard was the wind. It felt oddly... fitting. For as the Courier walked in calm, casual strides leading towards the faint glow of what was likely a stasis tube of some sort, he could not stop the unbidden thoughts that this was the wrong decision.

 

Doubts and "what ifs" have always been a part of humanity. Each action taken in their lives is, at one point or another, reflected upon and that brings the questions: "If I had done this, not that," or "Went there, not here," and any number of other little choices. The late Benny likely had a similar thought about aiming just a "little to the left" in a cemetery just outside of Goodsprings.

 

So in ten or twenty years -- assuming he was still alive, of course -- the Courier wondered how he would view this day. The day he made his choice.

 

As the sound of echoing metal drifted through the air, as the wind lightly shifted brown locks of hair, and as introspective thoughts drifted around a questioning mind, Solomon Abel came to a stop. Turning his eyes slightly from the left to right, he took note of his surroundings.

 

The walk-way on which he stood was suspended over an abyss of dust and rust, so thick his eyes failed to see the bottom. Idly, Solomon noted its oddity, having been built as such within a pre-war casino. However any criticism directed at the pre-war designers was quickly lost as he gazed forward once again.

 

Positioned just ahead of him, at the very end of the metal walk-way where he stood, was his target; his goal. In the center of a group of machines was a lone stasis chamber with a darkened window covering the front. Within he could see a form that initially brought back thoughts of non-feral Ghouls before shifting to images he had seen in text books of a place called "Egypt" and its "mummies".

 

He was not positive he knew what a "mummy" was, but the thought came to mind nonetheless.

 

Solomon Abel considered himself a sensible person so he was not entirely surprised to see the stasis chamber before him, with a form sealed within he could only assume was the famous (notorious?) Robert Edwin House.

 

Here was the man who really ruled New Vegas. Not the striking face on a television screen, not the army of police-faced machines roaming about the Strip, the Three Families, the New California Republic or Caesar's Legion, and not even the people of the Mojave Wasteland.

 

This was _thee_ Robert Edwin House, in all his glory. The most feared and respected man in the post-war Mojave. The "father" of New Vegas. The man who controlled the Securitrons and turned New Vegas into the fortress it was now… But as the Courier gazed into the stasis chamber ahead of him and bore witness to his true form, he could only idly muse how unimpressed he was with the man’s defenses.

 

Mr. House could have demanded that the Courier handed over the Platinum Chip at the front gate to the Strip or the door just outside the Lucky 38, had Victor taken it or used another Securitron to project House's image of his pre-war self on its screen and avoided all of this. But no, he had invited a perfect stranger, whom he knew nothing about and was recovering from two bullets fired into his brain, into his sanctuary. Into his personnel office to converse and all the while under the guard of less than ten of his Securitron defenders.

 

Perhaps, at this very moment, Mr. House himself was thinking "what if".

 

Not that it matters; not anymore, anyway

 

Finally tearing his eyes from the stasis chamber before him, ice-like blue eyes moved to focus on a single terminal mounted onto a console with cords leading towards the pod which sealed the great Mr. House.

 

Turning the monitor of the terminal up to face him, Solomon pulled down the key-board and watched as the green screen came alive with white letters:

 

_-ROBCO INDUSTRIUES UNIFIED OPERATING SYSTEM COPYRIGHT 2075-2077 ROBCO INDUSTRIUES-_

_-Server A-_

_> /Welcome, Mr. House-_

 

A small, rueful smile graced the Courier's lips as he thought, ' _There wasn't even a password required._ '

 

Turning his ice-blue eyes towards the stasis chamber, he asked, aloud, "Did you really believe no-one would ever get this far?" No answer came, even though he was vaguely expecting one. When only the wind and the faint sound of the alarm met his ears, the Courier simply shook his head before muttering, "Apparently not."

 

With disappointment directed at the arrogance of the "brilliant" Mr. House, Solomon turned his gaze back towards the terminal.

 

_> Unseal L.S. Chamber._

 

It was the only option displayed on the screen. It was also, fittingly, the only option the Courier really had at this point.

 

After quickly pressing a few buttons, confirming his choice, the white text changed once again.

 

_> / Warning! Microbial Infection Risk. Proceed?_

 

Below that, there were two choices:

 

_> Yes._

Or...

 

_> No._

 

As calm ice-blue eyes read and re-read the line over and over again, Solomon found the entire thing unfitting. Such a short warning, with such few options in response, and a great man would die.

 

Solomon could not claim to like Mr. House, nor even claim to _know_ him all that well. However, he, as well as everyone else in New Vegas and the Mojave Wasteland, knows what he is responsible for. He should be respected for it even if you loathe him for doing so.

 

 " 'Yes,' " Solomon read aloud. "or 'No'." Shaking his head at the simplicity of it all; the callousness with which it, essentially, meant the death of someone. Solomon was by no means a stranger to killing -- Benny being the most recent example of that -- but he did not believe in wasting life needlessly. Useful people, such as Mr. House, especially.

 

' _At least,_ ' the Courier thought. ' _There is some type of warning._ ' A small consolation, but it was something.

 

Quickly pressing a few more keys on the terminal, the "Yes" was highlighted with a green rectangle spanning the length of the screen.

 

As a single, solitary finger moved over towards the button that would end the life of Robert Edwin House, the Courier found himself faltering.

 

There were options, he knew.

 

In the left-breast pocket of the very suit he now wore rested three items that would decide his path. His right index finger hovered above another such defining object in his life.

 

Stuffed behind all the others was a letter of invite to visit the New California Republic’s ambassador to the Mojave Wasteland, Dennis Crocker. He could go there, pledge his services and live as a citizen of the "glorious republic."

 

Tucked just in front of that very letter -- in the very same pocket, ironically enough -- was the amulet given to him by Vulpes Inculta, a man with wickedly charming charisma and a demented if not oddly poetic but undeniably intelligent mind. The "exceptional gift of his Mark". He could serve Caesar and his Legion, vow to destroy all "profligates" and "degenerates," possibly reenacting what he had witnessed in Nipton even.

 

Then there was the button beneath his finger and the innocent little poker chip at the forefront of his breast pocket; the damnable Platinum Chip that started all of this.

 

However, as he gazed down at the terminal, he knew he only really had three choices. Mr. House, even if he turned around right now and gave him the Platinum Chip, would never trust him and would only have him killed once he exited the Lucky 38. Whether he respected the man or otherwise, he was not about to die just so he could live.

 

With that thought he only really had three choices.

 

The New California Republic.

 

Caesar's Legion.

 

A little poker chip; the Platinum Chip.

 

Once again, for the second time in the last hour, a rueful smile graced the Courier's lips. "There really isn't much of a choice there."

 

Shaking his head, Solomon released a breath he had not realized he was holding as his finger came down; his path decided.

 

Within seconds, the stasis chamber came alive. The whistling sound of smoking exiting a confined location hissed through the air as cover of the stasis pod slow opened. As the clasps released, the single window on the pod fogged up for but a moment. As the air all rushed out, the pod opened up as Solomon stepped around the computer console.

 

Bad move.

 

As the pod opened up, a cloud of... something blocked his view of the pod. Dust and decayed skin follicles appeared to be the most prominent contents of the cloud. However, that was quickly passed from Solomon's mind as he inhaled, breathing in some of the cloud.

 

Instantly he released a sharp cough as his nostrils were assaulted by a... wretched, terrible scent; most of which he could not even hope to name, much less describe.

 

All thoughts of smells were quickly cast aside as the... insides of the pod lifted up. Even through the cloud of dissipating -- thanks to the wind -- dust, Solomon could see a small and _very_ thin arm reaching up.

 

As the internal slab of the stasis pod lifted up even further, it tilted, forcing its lone inhabitant to be angled in such a manner that, were he not held by various tubes and straps, he would surely have slide off.

 

As the slab moved around to face the metal walk-way, Solomon took an instinctual step back as the former inhabitant of the stasis pod was shown to him; Robert Edwin House, after over two-hundred years of confinement.

 

The years had... not been well for him. Had there been any rotting flesh clinging to his bones, Solomon would swear he would have passed for a Ghoul, but he was not a Ghoul. Indeed, laying before him was a frighteningly malnourished _human_ ; skin so tight and thin every one of his bones was easily visible on his brownish discolored skin.

 

As it turns out, the "straps" keeping him in place were actually tubes and various monitoring devices connected all over his body. Undoubtedly the one around his pelvis was for his bodily functions, the one over his heart to monitor his heart rate and the tube leading straight into his stomach was for protean injections.

 

Atop his wrinkled and discolored head rested a crown-like head piece. Blinking lights and the tube running from it towards the back of the stasis pod implied it was the up-link system for the Lucky 38's mainframe. Making a mental note of that, Solomon continued with his observations.

 

In terms of hair, House had almost none. A small, albeit fairly long, cropping of thin, white hair extended from his chin, but that was all. His breathing was clearly labored as wheezes for every rise and fall of his chest echoed and reverberated around them.

 

"Why have you... done this?" The sheer suddenness of the voice startled the Courier. The voice was raspy and it clearly pained the "man" once known as Robert House to speak. Nevertheless, he continued. "Centuries of preparations... so much good, undone."

 

Even with a raspy and weak voice, the hint of sadness in those words seeped through. Ice-blue eyes looked at the form before them with a pained expression, but the voice that emitted from their owner was calm, neutral. "It's just business."

 

The words themselves were not the ones the Courier would have personally preferred, but they only seemed fitting considering _who_ the being before him was.

 

At that response what might have been comparable to a groan passed the decrepit Mr. House's lips. "If personnel gain... what you sought... should've done... as asked."

 

Quickly shaking his head, the Courier focused his ice-blue eyes on the form before him, the previous signs of pained empathy gone now. The voice that followed was calm, neutral, but stern. "No," said Solomon, tone perfectly even. "Not personnel business." Extending his right hand out in manner more fitting someone facing an audience. "The business of... _politics_." Solomon finished, as if speaking of a profound thought House was not privy too. In a way, he was.

 

The wheeze that came in reply was long and deep. The raspy voice retaining a hint of mockery, "What do you know... of politics... _courier_?"

 

A weak smile graced the "courier's" lips before he replied, tone one of light admonishment, "Not much, I admit. But, I must say, neither do you."

 

Mr. House groaned in response, his pale lips moving to responded, but they were interrupted.

 

"In your previous life," Solomon pre-empted. "You created a technological empire (Robco Industries) and led it well. However, looking outside today, you know little of actual politics." As he shook his head, the Courier shrugged his shoulders in what would have been a sign of defeat had it not been for his slight smile. "You... _reeducated_ the Three Families, yes. You fortified the Strip, yes. You kept tourism coming to the Mojave, yes. However, you failed everywhere else."

 

Dropping his shoulders, Solomon released a sigh before focusing his cold eyes on the form of Robert House. "You allowed the Brotherhood of Steel to enter the region, take over important instillation, construct two bunkers, and then fortify their positions. Not long after the N.C.R. came and forced you to hand over the Hoover Dam in exchange for more time as independent." The slight smile dropped as ice-blue eyes took on a more judgmental glaze. "Ever since then the Mojave has fallen apart. The N.C.R.'s ever expanding influence, the Legion's looming presence and more internal problems that I can even name off the top of my head."

 

A slight quirk of the lips was the only visual change as his tone adopted a more lilting quality. " _The Bear and the Bull fight over the dam, dyeing the Colorado red with blood,_ " he sing-songed. "The Three Families drain the livelihood of all those of the Mojave and pay tribute to a "not-at-home" Mr. House who does nothing but protect his own fortune."

 

Suddenly, a light came to ice-blue orbs as a small smile crossed his lips. Quickly digging his right hand into his left-breast pocket, the Courier pulled out the Platinum Chip, holding it between his thumb and index finger. The deep wheezing emanating from Mr. House showed he recognized the chip as well.

 

Calming his features to one of utter neutrality, Solomon said, tone once again even, "Your whole plan for the future relied on this. My source says you have spent over eight-hundred-thousand caps to find this thing in the past year alone. Tisk-tisk, Mr. House, haven't you learned to never rely too much on a single plan? Had you not found this what would you have done about the dam? A Legion victory means the takeover of the Mojave. An N.C.R. victory means the annexation of the Mojave in the next few years. _'He who holds the dam, holds the Mojave_ ,' is the prevailing thought nowadays, yet you let the N.C.R. have it."

 

Quickly tucking the chip back into his pocket, the Courier sighed once again before saying, "I respect you, Mr. House, believe that. You have done great work, surviving over two-hundred years being proof of that. However, you are stale, _stagnate_. You don't change. You copied 'New' Vegas off of _Las_ Vegas. No originality. What could have been a powerful nation that thrived in the post-war world contented itself as a _tourist attraction_ \-- living off its past glory, never moving forward." Throwing his right-hand up in the air at the utter ridiculousness of it all, Solomon sighed.

 

"You..." Mr. House wheezed. "fool... know nothing."

 

Releasing a sigh, Solomon pinched the bridge of his nose as he muttered, "I expected more from you, Mr. House. I'm disappointed." Dropping his arms to his side, Solomon's right hand gripped his holstered 10mm Pistol as he said, "It's time to die, Mr. House."

 

House wheezed and groaned all at once. In a barely audible voice, he was so weak, Mr. House rasped, "May there be... a hell... for you... A Tartarus... bleak, unending."

 

Calm, neutral ice-blue eyes focused on Mr. House with no emotion of any kind. Blank, empty, cold -- no emotion. Nothing. Slowly pulling his pistol free, Solomon quoted, " 'Unending,' fitting last word." House focused his eyes on the gun aimed directly at his head before shifting his attention to its wielder. "Know this:" began Solomon. "The name Robert Edwin House has not lost its value. Martyrdom, as the 'founder' of this grand city, will be your epitaph and legacy. Be content as you depart this world. Your death, like your life, served a greater purpose." A small, rueful smile crossed his lips as he concluded: "If only we were all so lucky."

 

A single trigger was pulled...

 

A single shot was fired...

 

Robert Edwin House was dead...

 

And the "courier" was no more.

 

* * *

 

The sky was clouded and overcast. Dusk had come and the wind picked up.

 

Looking up into the sky, Solomon Abel, a former courier for the Mojave Express, could only smile.

 

He had won.

 

Caesar died of a tumor before the battle. Legate Lanius was felled by the ex-courier's own hand in a one-on-one duel the fool had accepted. His Praetorian guards soon followed; just as so many of the Legion’s finest had in the hours prior.

 

The Great Khans had done just as they said they would; fought foolishly and to their end.

 

The Boomers had held to their word, 'raining death on the savages' and proving their value in the days to come.

 

Even the Enclave Remnants, whom he had initially wondered how much use they would really be, had proven themselves.

 

Most of all Yes Man had proven to be invaluable.

 

And the best part was to come. Now.

 

Solomon Abel stood resolute, unflinching. His T-51b Power Armor -- a gift from Elder McNamara for his new honorary Paladin -- was dented in numerous places but still held strong. With his rifle holstered on his back, Solomon waited for what was to come.

 

The former courier knew _he_ would come here, to the frontlines, after the Legion offensive -- and defensive, for that matter; it was their "Legate Camp" after all -- to claim the glory for the New California Republic. That thought only forced a smile to begin creeping on Solomon's lips.

 

Now, standing just inside the Legate Camp, Solomon was not surprised in the least when the main gate leading into the camp was blown open -- unnecessary as it was because it was not even locked. Nor was he surprised when four veteran N.C.R. Rangers rushed in, their composite black combat armor blending well with the descending night.

 

The four Rangers stopped just ahead of the lone living individual within the camp. Two on each side. A trifle compared to what he knew was following behind them. Not that they seemed to know.

 

Then _he_ appeared.

 

Solomon had only spoken with the man a few times previously and had not been impressed.

 

Coming towards him, wearing a brown officer's uniform of the New California Republic Army with a green tie, four stars lining his lapel with a brown officer's hat, the symbol of the N.C.R. -- a dual-headed bear with a single star -- stood center as stars lined the edges.

 

The man, General "wait-and-see" Lee Oliver, walked forward with an undeserved sense of pride. Even from a distance, Solomon could see the wide grin on the other man's face. Had Oliver been able to see pass the mask provided to the former courier with his power armor helmet he would see ice-blue eyes, hardened with resolve, forced into a glare.

 

"Caesar on the cross!" General Oliver bellowed, strutting forward with another N.C.R. Ranger elite at his flank. "Been a long time since I've seen the kind of work you've laid down today... a damn long time." The inept general ceased his stride to stand at the center of his five Ranger guards and just a few feet away from the former courier.

 

His tone, as he spoke, was one that could only be described as barely contained glee. "And the screams of those Legion bastards as they kicked dirt running East, like a choir of angels to my ears."

 

Here, the General developed a contemplative look. "Speaking of -- that crazy light-show over the Fort, what the fuck was that, some thumb from God you called down? Amazing, fucking amazing."

 

Let it be a testament to the former courier's iron-will that not even a snicker was audible. However, the repeated lifting and lowering of his lip as he fought down the vicious grin that threatened to break across his face made Solomon greatly pleased he was still wearing his helmet. Solomon knew what that "light-show" was and Oliver still had no idea. He soon would though, all of the Mojave would.

 

"Could use a hundred of you," General Oliver continued, unknowing of the thoughts of the man before him. "Just scatter you across the East like jacks, give those plumed-fucks the what-for."

 

That was the end of it. The ex-courier's composure finally slipped. A soft snicker, barely audible, passed his lips. Quickly taking both hands to his helmet, Solomon slipped the protective armor off. "Hold that thought, general," said Solomon, resting his helmet against his hip and noticing with amusement how Oliver seemed immediately uneasy as ice-blue eyes focused solely on him. "I wanted to introduce you to some friends."

 

As the former courier gestured a hand towards Oliver's back, the confused N.C.R. general turned his head. The thick smoke that had been kicked up by the destruction of the Legion gate had already faded, leaving everything outside visible. Even if they were covered by their helmets, Solomon knew that six pairs of N.C.R. eyes widened upon the sight that greeted them.

 

PDQ-88b Securitrons. Dozens of Securitrons. Dozens of the advanced, Mark II Securitrons.

 

The large robots -- standing taller than any human -- lined the way leading back to Hoover Dam. Their titanium armor glinting, even in the moon light. The faint glow from their screens -- each bearing the face of a clichéd grizzled soldier smoking a cigar; well, all but one, anyway -- shined making the group seem like a sea of light. Perhaps it was because he understood what they signified, but the once-upon-a-time-courier thought it was a poetically beautiful sight.

 

Apparently, even the inept Lee Oliver could sense something was about, but the poetic beauty was lost upon him. "And... uh... well." Shifting his back towards Solomon, Oliver asked, "These, uh... these boys with you?" Oliver cast a worried look back towards the group of Securitrons, taking a reflexive step back as four of the machines began rolling forward -- one with a helpful face. "Hello, there, smiley," Oliver nervously stammered.

 

Quickly turning back around, Oliver took a few fast and guarded steps forward, standing closer to the former courier. "Guess it ain't no secret how you, ah..." Turning his eyes back towards the Securitrons, Solomon noted with approval that each of the robots had their weapons trained on one of the N.C.R. personnel. Oliver stammered once again, panic reaching into his tone. "I say, can you ask them to put their weapons down? I was just reaching into my coat to give you a cigar."

 

Solomon Abel, for his part, paid no heed to Oliver's distressed state. Focusing the same eerily calm ice-blue eyes that had gazed upon Robert House three months ago, Solomon spoke, his tone even but forceful, "General Oliver, Hoover Dam is _ours_." The fact the courier was the only human fully representing this side -- thus, " _mine_ " may have been more fitting -- was irrelevant. "Leave at once." It was a command, not a request. Oliver saw it for what it was.

 

"I would sooner spit on the grave of my dead mother than let some courier-walk-the-wasteland-fuck talk to me like that." Oliver instantly retorted, his face shifting from one of fear to anger. "Who do you think you are? Looking to cash you chips to the sound of N.C.R. bullets, eh? I can oblige." Despite his words, fear and doubt still held firm in his eyes.

 

Seeing that General Oliver of the New California Republic was more open to discussion than the now deceased Legate Lanius of Caesar's Legion, Solomon decided to be more amiably to the man's plight. "I don't want any more violence; there's been enough of that today."

 

"Look," Oliver cautiously replied as his eyes narrowed. "I know you’re riding high now, but let me tell you: You ain't pissing on me right now, you’re pissing on the Bear. You've been far enough West, I'm guessing, to know just how far that claw stretches. Fuck with the Bear, and..."

 

Oliver left the exact details off -- best to allow imaginations run rampant. However, Oliver was only saying what the former courier knew already. The New California Republic would not take this lightly. Their President, Aaron Kimball, should be on his private Vertibird back to Shady Sands by now, followed soon by the news of the Legion _and_ N.C.R. defeat at Hoover Dam.

 

The former courier knew, by Mr. House's own projections and his own, that President Kimball would be held accountable for the loss of N.C.R. power in the Mojave. If General Oliver were to also return unharmed after handing over the dam without a fight? Both men would be on the figurative "chopping block" of N.C.R. politics. When -- not if, Solomon knew -- the N.C.R. returned, they would be ready. All the Mojave needed was time.

 

As Solomon Abel thought of all this, he roamed his ice-blue gaze from Lee Oliver to each of the five Rangers. All six men of the Bear were nervous. However, their commander, Lee Oliver, was nervous and prideful.

 

The former courier knew how to deal with pride.

 

Turning his gaze back onto the stubborn N.C.R. general, Solomon spoke in his cold and neutral tone, but with a stern edge to it that could cut steel. "General," he began, as if he were talking down a petulant child. "The Republic has overstayed its welcome -- this land is mine."

 

Normally Solomon would be generally against such overtly despotic rhetoric as that -- calling a country "mine" -- but here it had its place. Oliver would write a report and he would remember who had defeated him; the former courier, Solomon Abel.

 

"You want me to make tracks out of here, head back West, tail between my legs?" Oliver questioned incredulously. "No, I came for a fight today, and if you're looking to make me budge you better have a damn good left hook or I'm not going anywhere."

 

Resisting the urge to remark about his "left hook" being an army of advanced robots with lasers and missiles, the one-time-courier simply smiled a small smile before asking, "Really, because you're talking and not attacking?"

 

"Yeah..." Oliver admitted, toning becoming docile. "But I wasn't expecting a fight when I came up here. And now that we're talking, I don't like the sound of things." Quickly shaking his head, Oliver asked, disbelief evident in his voice, "Do you know what you're doing? Making a nation, like you think you're doing, ain't like chowing down on a pile of Fancy Lad Snake Cakes. Think you got the guts to carve out a frontier? Build towns, protect the roads, run supplies, train troops?"

 

Despite the calm and controlled countenance, Solomon Abel felt this whole line of questioning was rather strange for a defeated general. Deciding to humor the defeated man, he replied, "I guarantee I've put more thought into the future of the Mojave than you or anyone in the N.C.R.."

 

Releasing what could only be called an exhausted sigh, General Lee Oliver only shook his head. "Hell... Can't believe we got suckered by some road jockey. Should've been watching the flank while Caesar’s best was making all that noise." Shaking his head again, Oliver focused his defeated and docile brown eyes, meeting ice-blue ones weakly. "I know what those robots of yours can do on a bad day, and I'm not eager to toss lives at them just to make a point."

 

"But," Oliver continued. "If you're taking this place, you better hope you can hold it. I'll give my superiors my opinion, but I don't think they're going to listen. So if the N.C.R. comes at you, and it will, pray you're ready. I promise you, out situations reversed, I'd see you hang."

 

Unbidden, the idle thought of having Yes Man throw the N.C.R. general off of Hoover Dam came to mind before quickly being squashed. Kimball and Oliver need to play their parts -- the defeated leaders of the N.C.R. in the Mojave. Deciding against provoking the N.C.R. unnecessarily -- it also would not do for Oliver to become a martyr for anti-Mojave sentiments -- the former courier only smiled kindly and said, "Is that all? Because I've got work to do, and N.C.R. words don't mean much around here."

 

Oliver scoffed, his face forming in a contemptuous sneer. "Fine. Come on, men, let's go."

 

Apparently deciding against walking through the army of Securitrons behind him, Oliver and the five Rangers began heading towards the back of the Legion camp -- intent on using another exit.

 

As the defeated General Lee Oliver walked past him, the former courier noted that he and the Rangers were being careful of stepping to close. When the N.C.R. general finally passed him, Solomon noted out of his peripheral vision the smiling face of Yes Man rolling towards him.

 

About to turn and speak with his "go-to" robot, a smirk appeared on the one-time-courier's face before his held his hand up, stopping the rolling Securitron in his tracks. Shifting slightly to turn his ice-blue eyes back onto the retreating group of N.C.R. Rangers and their solitary general, before speaking, "General Lee Oliver of the New California Republic..."

 

The man in question immediately stopped in his tracks as ever nerve in his body tensed; the Rangers were likewise cautious of the next words to leave the former courier's lips. And, even though none of the six had their eyes directed at him, Solomon knew he had their undivided attention. "The Mojave," Solomon began in a faux-casual tone. "Is a burgeoning power in the wasteland. Former N.C.R. soldiers of your talent, general, are greatly required. If the 'strength of the Bear' ever wanes, make sure to remember us. We could always use the help."

 

Turning his back towards the group of now thoroughly confused N.C.R. soldiers, the former courier focused his eyes forward, on his Securitrons, and reigned in a grin that threatened to split his face. Taking a step forward, Solomon suddenly stopped before turning back towards the N.C.R. soldiers who were all gawking at him save for General Oliver himself. "Of course," Solomon continued. "The offer extends to you of the Rangers as well. I've heard good things. Chief Hanlon spoke highly of you all." Quickly shaking his head, Solomon turned back towards the army of Securitron as he muttered, "Never mind. Enjoy your trip back West, gentlemen."

 

With the N.C.R. soldiers finally out of earshot, Solomon motioned for Yes Man to come over. With a rolling swagger that could almost convey the robot's giddiness -- which may have simply been an effect of the perpetually smiling image on his screen -- the tall machine stood before the former courier.

 

"You did a super job wrapping things up! And I'm not just saying that because I have too!" Yes Man excitedly announced.

 

Solomon only smiled at the large machine. Yes Man had proven his value as unquestionable. Only the former courier himself could claim more responsibility for a Mojave victory today.

 

"I didn't want to make a big deal about this until after we won, but, well..." Solomon actually quirked one of his eyebrows at Yes Man's tone-of-voice. The helpful robot had never really been reluctant to say anything before. "I found some code snippets in one of Mr. House's databanks that will let me, um, reprogram my personality!"

 

Now this was a surprise. And, apparently, it showed on his face. "To be a little more assertive, basically!"

 

An assertive Yes Man. The very thought sent a unbidden chill down the former courier's spine. Yes Man was tied directly into the Lucky 38's mainframe and was in complete control of the Securitron network. As things were now with the death of Mr. House, it was safe to say: he who controlled Yes Man also controlled New Vegas, Hoover Dam and, in turn, the Mojave Wasteland.

 

"So that's what I'm going to be doing, and it's going to take me a while, so it'll seem as if I'm offline. But don't worry, everything is going to be okay!" Yes Man continued, unknowing of Solomon's thoughts. "I've updated the Securitron’s targeting parameters, so they know what to do! Vegas will be protected!"

 

Even more worrisome thoughts. The key-stone to the Securitron army would be inactive during these pivotal moments. Unacceptable.

 

"So that's where I'll be, off making a few changes, and I... I guess I'll see you around!" Yes Man went excitedly. "We accomplished a lot together! It was fun! Take care!"

 

However, just as the screen of the Securitron began to flicker out and the machine turned to join the ranks of its kind, a single, human, voice punctured the air. "No." Solomon announced, tone resolute and finite. His calm ice-blue eyes narrowed fractionally on the solitary machine before him. "Entirely reprogramming yourself is unnecessary."

 

The flickering of Yes Man's monitor stopped and the smiling face Solomon had come to associate with the helpful robot remained. "And why is that!?" Yes Man questioned just as excitedly.

 

Steeling himself, Solomon relaxed his narrowed eyes into one of intelligence and thought before replying, "Simple. I've been able to predict almost every action up to this point. The Legion attempt to assassinate Aaron Kimball, General Oliver's reaction to a robot army at Hoover Dam. I am also responsible for allying the Boomers, the Three Families as well as the Kings and the Followers of the Apocalypse with an independent New Vegas. Then there is my manipulation of the Great Khans to fight to their deaths against the Legion and convincing the Enclave Remnants to fight here today. I was right about it all."

 

"Well, you do have a point there!" Yes Man agreed, not that he could do otherwise, anyway -- so long as he was not assertive. "But I don't get it. Why is it unnecessary for me to be more assertive!?"

 

"Because you don't have to be," was Solomon's faux-flippant reply. "I was right about everything else so I know what to do from here on. I even know what programs you _do_ need to edit. So you being assertive serves no purpose."

 

"Wow!" Yes Man exclaimed. "I hadn't thought of that! You're really smart! But I guess that's why you're the boss and I'm not, right?"

 

"Naturally," Solomon casually replied. "Now, about this 'assertive' program of yours?"

 

"Yes, I know, I wasn't really thinking!" Yes Man said cheerfully. "With you here, I don't really need to be assertive! You've got all the answers!"

 

The former courier nodded his head. One potential crisis averted. However...

 

"Yes Man," Solomon began. "I have some system changes I want to make."

 

"Yes, boss?" Yes Man beamed as a flicker crossed his screen. "What would you like to change?"

 

"I want you too off load this 'assertive' program onto a data storage device and have it delivered to me when I arrive in New Vegas." Solomon began. He had a plan now. "I'll handle the program from there. For now, escort General Oliver and his personnel from Hoover Dam and secure the instillation. There is also the matter of the Securitron bunker on Fortification Hill. Send a team up there to clear it of any straggling Legion soldiers and secure that position."

 

"Right-o!" Yes Man exclaimed. "Anything else?"

 

" 'Anything else?' " Solomon parroted, shaking his head in bemusement. "Yes Man, this is only the beginning. Driving the Legion and the N.C.R. out was only the first step. This," Solomon waved an outstretched hand towards the burning Legion camp and back towards the dam. "Was just the start, you see? This is where it all begins."

 

 

**TO BE CONTINUED...**


	2. Viva New Vegas

* * *

_"Most soldiers, like me, were pretty psyched when news came about a victory at the [Hoover] Dam... Then again, most of us thought it was an N.C.R. victory, too, not a damn regime change."_

\- Private Jake Erwin, N.C.R. New Vegas Embassy Security Detachment -

* * *

 **Chapter Two:** _Viva New Vegas_

_"You're listening to Radio New Vegas, your little jukebox in the Mojave Wasteland. I'm Mr. New Vegas, and I'm here for you..._

_"Well it's finally happened, folks. After more than four years of an NCR-Legion stand-off at Hoover Dam, control of dam has finally changed hands. And don't you worry, it's not the Legion. It seems a third party of Securitrons unaffiliated with the late Mr. House and under the command of a former courier of the Mojave Express aided N.C.R. forces in holding the dam against Legion invaders under the command of the Legate known as Lanius.  
_

_"Eyewitness reports say the Courier -- who introduced himself to RNV reporters as 'Solomon Abel' -- led a force into the Legion camp and personally took down the Legate before reportedly telling N.C.R. general Lee Oliver that, quote, '_ Hoover Dam is **ours** _.'  
_

_"Currently, N.C.R. forces are launching a complete withdrawal from Hoover Dam, making their way back to Camp McCarran. Securitrons, under the command of Solomon Abel, have taken up positions at Hoover Dam and the nearby ex-Legion camp on Fortification Hill.  
_

_"Meanwhile, N.C.R. supporters are reeling from the news as the Legion makes tracks East. Power has also been redirected from the dam and is being spread across the Mojave, particularly to the New Vegas Strip and the outlining areas.  
_

_"It is currently unknown what long term affect these recent events will have, but one thing is clear: the power vacuum on the Strip has a new contender and his name is 'Abel'."_

* * *

For the first time in a week the New Vegas Strip stood in silence.

The glowing jeweled core of the post-war Mojave stood in utter silence, its bright lights shining in the dark night twice as bright as they had just one week prior. The whole of the Strip was wrapped in utter silence, the antithesis of almost everywhere else in the Mojave Wasteland; from Primm to Freeside, Mojave Outpost to Hoover Dam. While anarchy raged elsewhere, silence ruled the streets here.

In the single, solitary week that followed the former Courier and his Securitron Army's victory over both Caesar's Legion and the New California Republic, chaos, in all its forms, erupted from every pore of the Mojave.

Raiders groups from the remnants of the Powder Gangers and Fiends to the Vipers and Jackals took the opportunity and struck, praying on many a retreating NCR civilians and wastelanders.

Settlements, from Novac to Goodsprings, erupted into disorder and fear as the survivors of past Legion attacks preparing themselves for even greater hardships to come.

Even the normally cautious Brotherhood of Steel took the opportunity to claim what they desired: HELIOS One from its weakened Legion defenders. The sudden surge of activity at the old facility going largely unnoticed by the wider Mojave area.

In the east, with Caesar's Legion defeated on all fronts in the Mojave and leaderless with the deaths of both Caesar himself and Legate Lanius, were forced to retreat across the Colorado River once more when few of the surviving Centurions from Hoover Dam were able to rally their forces. Those that did fled East toward Legion territory.

In the west, the New California Republic was still recovering from their losses at Hoover Dam and other skirmishes against the Legion and were hard pressed to defend themselves from the spread of Raider activity and frenzied wastelanders. Camp McCarran was quickly over burdened with wounded and/or panicked civilians and troops, coming from not only Hoover Dam, but Camps Golf and Forlorn Hope.

Even New Vegas itself was not spared the fires of anarchy.

In Freeside where tensions between NCR squatters and locals had soothed over, erupted into full-fledged rioting with Mojave born residents railing against the continued NCR presence in "their land". Members of the Followers of the Apocalypse, initially heralded as heroes for tending to the wounded of the Mojave, were accosted by disgruntled residents of New Vegas for their fair treatment of NCR refugees. Though full-conflict was avoided, tensions remain high and NCR stragglers fled from the Old Mormon Fort and all parts of New Vegas towards Camp McCarran.

The Strip and the Three Families, united under the former Courier and his army of Securitrons, fared better than most areas of the Mojave. NCR citizens and military police on the Strip were soon to figure out a new regime had sprung up around them; one much different than its predecessor and as the civilians fled from the Strip or towards the Embassy, NCR military police stood firm against Securitron forces, prepared to fight. Yet a new order soon came; one from both General Oliver and Ambassador Crocker: avoid conflict. NCR military police on the Strip, for the first time in nearly a decade, vacated their posts and returned to the embassy.

Through it all the man who started everything stood on the penthouse level of his unofficial palace, the Lucky 38, and gazed down on the New Vegas Strip. Its brilliant neon lights shone three times as bright, its quiet streets patrolled by twice as many Securitrons, and its casinos sat still. Seeing all this, the former courier smiled in satisfaction as he thought of what the future would hold.

 _"Gonna play that song for you right now, and it's about that special someone you only find only once in a '_ Blue Moon _'."_

As the voice of Radio New Vegas’s disc jockey faded and was replaced by the music of pre-war glory, the ice-like blue eyes of one Solomon Abel peered from the penthouse windows of the Lucky 38, enjoying the first quiet night in the week of chaos and excitement that had followed the New Vegas victory at Hoover Dam.

Dressed in his favorite faded black suit with his modified 10mm Pistol at his side and with a glass of red wine in his hand, Solomon turned his eyes from the bright skyline of New Vegas and towards his immediate surroundings. The dimly lit penthouse level of the Lucky 38 could easily be called the metaphorical heart of the new independent New Vegas and it was not because that was were Solomon Abel's room happened to be.

Within the dimly illuminated room, one's eyes were quickly drawn towards the collection of monitors flanked by two Securitrons. The very monitor where Solomon had first seen the false image of Mr. House was now adorned with ever smiling visage of new his personnel assistant and artificial intelligence system; the corner-stone of independent New Vegas, Yes Man.

With all his other companions returning to their respective places in the Mojave, Solomon had spent the last week in the company of the helpful artificial intelligence, tweaking various systems and coordinating the Securitron's efforts against the Legion remnants, the NCR withdrawals, and crowd control in areas from the Strip to Hoover Dam.

Though not really surprised by the chaos wrought from his efforts at Hoover Dam, Solomon would admit he was growing tired of it.

He had only been awake ten minutes into the day after the battle, having rested in one of the former NCR officer's beds at Hoover Dam, before being informed by Yes Man of the riots and chaos that were spreading. None of it really surprised him; he had even predicted the Brotherhood taking HELIOS One, though that was a concern meant for another day.

"Yes Man," Solomon intoned. "How are things on the Strip?"

It had been the first question he would ask in each of their thrice-daily meetings. The answer was always--

"Safe!" Yes Man happily replied. "The Securitrons have it completely secured. Not even an air bubble could get in! Though, that also means no new casino patrons can either."

"That is to be expected," Solomon responded easily as he began walking across the room, towards the line of book-shelves under the stairs. "With the outbreak of riots and civil unrest all across the city - outside the Strip, of course - it doesn't really create the ideal environment for gambling or... _other_ activities."

"Just say the word and the Securitron Army can have those trouble makers cleared out in no time!" promised Yes Man, his monitor screen flickering.

"I have no doubt," agreed Solomon mildly. "But now is not the time. Officially speaking, as per Mr. House's track record, the Securitrons are only expected to control the Strip -- which they are. Had House moved them into Freeside and begun putting down thugs, they would have been treated as invaders; the same thing would happen here. No, we don't move... yet."

"Yet?" Yes Man questioned, quiet unlike his former self. Among the systems Solomon had worked on over the past week, Yes Man's programing was one of them; the first, actually. The former "Yes Man" was unable to disobey _any_ order he was given; that was how Solomon had taken control of him after Benny was killed. Now, after Solomon's reprogramming, the only one who could give Yes Man an order he could not refuse was... Solomon Abel.

The side effect? "Shouldn't we secure the Strip and put a stop to all the bad people? That'd sure make them grateful!" Yes Man still became a little more assertive, though never disobedient.

Slowly shaking his head before setting his aged wine glass down on a nearby table, Solomon replied, "You would think so, wouldn't you? But that's not human nature." Pulling a book from the shelf and taking a seat in a nearby chair, Solomon continued, "Take ‘The Kings' as an example; they are independent and idealistic. Anarchists, the lot of them. The only difference between them and your common Raider is their morals. Had Securitrons marched into Freeside and put down the rioters, The Kings would have revolted themselves; resisting us just as they did Mr. House."

Pulling open the book, Solomon slowly began flipping through the pages, his sharp ice-like eyes glancing over each page without reading. "However," he continued. "If the situation falls apart and all order is lost, then even the anarchist Kings will seek protection. Few who live in anarchy want it to be that way; those who live in order merely see it as liberating." A small, almost un-seeable smirk adorned his face as his eyes lifted up towards the monitor in front of him, Yes Man's smiling face staring back at him. "We have also given them an example of an alternative."

"Oh!" Yes Man exclaimed in realization. "That's why you wanted those Securitrons sent to the Old Mormon Fort; to protect the Followers and show them that you can provide protection! I gotta, say that’s pretty smart, boss!"

Turning his eyes back towards the book resting in his hands, Solomon only nodded mutely at the AI’s praise. "The Followers did, after all, agree to support our independent New Vegas. Arcade is also there; my personnel friendship with him aside, he provides useful talents and connections."

"Connections?" questioned Yes Man, his screen flickering as he searched his memory banks. "What connections does he have? _Oh!_ You mean those Enclave Remnants, don't you!?"

Not looking up from his book, Solomon nodded. "Yes, I do. They are no longer part of the Enclave and have ties here to the Mojave. Essentially they are trained soldiers living in a developing nation that has few skilled commanders. An army of machines, while greatly effective in fighting war, has its limits as civil security."

Suddenly, the book shut with an audible _snap!_ that echoed throughout the room before Solomon looked up towards Yes Man’s monitor. "Where is Ambassador Crocker right now?"

"Hmm..." Yes Man thought, searching the various security cameras all across the Strip in a fraction of a second. "Right where he has been since all this started: the NCR Embassy!"

As he absent-mindedly tapped his right index finger on the top of his book, Solomon took on a thoughtful expression, his eyes gazing forward at nothing in particular. "Still there, hmm? Good. As of this moment there are two ways to enter the Strip; the main gate that leads into Freeside, which we have guarded, and the monorail that leads towards Camp McCarran which the NCR used to ferry all of their citizens out of the Strip." Slowly, a small grin began to spread across Solomon’s face. "Where is Colonel Hsu at the moment?"

"Right there with the ambassador!" Yes Man answered promptly. "He’s been there since General Oliver and Colonel Moore arrived at Camp McCarran a few days ago!"

Solomon only nodded in response, his lips twitching. "Oliver sent Hsu here to share the blame. When Kimball and Oliver are publicly held responsible for the loss of Hoover Dam, their supporters will follow them; Colonel Cassandra Moore chief among them. With Oliver and Moore gone, Colonel James Hsu will likely remain in command of the NCR forces still in the Mojave. Even Oliver - the fool that he is - knows that. He wants Hsu here, on the Strip, to get caught up in everything here and make a mistake; to help spread the blame around, even if it's only a bit."

"What would you like me to do?" Yes Man queered, knowing an order was soon to follow. He was not disappointed.

* * *

Dennis Crocker had seen bad days.

In his years of service as the NCR's ambassador to Strip, the Three Families, and Mr. House, he had proven his versatility and shown he was better than both his predecessors. While he had never managed to get a meeting with the enigmatic Mr. House, he had made some head-way with the Three Families and negotiated the continued NCR expansion into the outer regions of New Vegas.

He had thought, only a few months prior, that public support was on the NCR side and the vote for annexation would soon come - with or without Mr. House's approval.

Then things had begun to change.

Crocker could not put his finger on exactly when it had all started, but if he thought long and hard on it he would have to say it was the day _he_ came into the city.

A courier dressed in armor that looked like it had gotten into a fist fight with a few Cazadors and lived to tell the tale and armed like he thought he was going to war, waltzes onto the Strip and within an hour is invited into the Lucky 38; the first person to set foot into the building in likely two-hundred years and, coincidently, the place Crocker had been trying to get in for nearly seven years himself. The man was an oddity if ever there was one to walk the wastes.

Crocker had heard the stories of the mysterious Courier that had wound up in Goodsprings after being shot in the head. In the preceding two weeks, Crocker had received reports from Lieutenant Heyes in Primm, Ranger Jackson and Major Knight at Mojave Outpost, and a Lieutenant Monroe at Boulder City, as well as various other reports from multiple other NCR troopers and Rangers stretching from Primm to Freeside.

Heyes reports that he cleared a group of escaped convicts from Primm, single-handedly. Ranger Jackson reports a Courier who assisted him with "road-side pests." Major Knight reports he negotiated the pardoning of a man from the NCR Correctional Facility to act as sheriff for Primm. Lastly -- and most interestingly, in Crocker's opinion -- Lieutenant Monroe reports he negotiated a hostage situation between the NCR and Great Khans; no easy task, considering the shared history.

A mysterious man such as this, skilled with both a pistol and his words, and he is called in to meet the enigmatic Mr, House. Crocker had to meet him.

Quickly dispatching a runner, Crocker had waited for his arrival at the N.C.R. Embassy. He and the N.C.R. would be waiting a while; the Strip and New Vegas would not.

Two days into the Courier's arrival on the Strip: Benny, the head of the Chairmen, is found dead.

Two days after Benny's deat: Securitrons begin handing out obituaries for Mister House.

And so it went...

Big Sal and Nero, the two heads of the Omerta, mysteriously disappear. Their casino floor boss, Cachino, who had been spotted meeting with the mysterious Courier, then takes control.

Within the Ultra-Luxe, White Glove Society member Mortimer and a number of others disappear after an apparent falling out. Then, for no apparent reason, NCR Brahmin baron Heck Gunderson begins selling beef to the Strip at new, much lower prices.

By the time the mysterious and illusive Courier walks into his office, the NCR 's hold on the Strip is looser than it has been since their arrival in 2273. The worst part? It took the second battle at the dam for them to even realize the fact.

As for the meeting itself... Well, Crocker thought the whole conversation was strangely formal, tense, and direct. The bare minimum of pleasantries was exchanged and the Courier's responses were always vague and/or misdirecting. After less than an hour, the man left promising to enlist the Boomers support for "us" and never once saying anything about the NCR. Retrospectively Crocker should have seen the signs and…

"All civilians have been removed from the Strip--" The sudden voice, spoken in a calm professional tone, quickly broke Crocker from his reverie.

Looking up from his terminal filled with various reports about troops being moved to McCarran and civilians wanting to head back West the dark skinned face of the NCR’s Mojave ambassador Dennis Crocker quickly rubbed his eyes with the knuckles at the base of his index fingers; trying his best not to notice the new wrinkle lines he was positive were not there a week ago.

Releasing a sigh, Crocker weakly tried (and failed) to press down the multitude of wrinkles that had formed on his favorite suit. His prized boutonniere flower had long since been lost in the commotion over the past week. ' _Like so many other things,_ ' Dennis mentally mourned. Turning his partially blood-shot eyes onto the other man in the room, the one he had not even realized was there, Crocker was surprised by what he saw.

An army uniform; an NCR army uniform. That alone was no surprise; the lockdown status on the Strip right now meant the embassy grounds was currently over-crowded with NCR military police and additional troopers that had been sent from McCarran for... whatever reason. No. What surprised him was _who_ was in the uniform.

"Colonel James Hsu?" Crocker questioned, fearing the respected colonel might not even be able to hear him. Even to his own ears, his voice sounded rough. The water that had formally been pumped from Hoover Dam had also been shut off towards particular areas across the Mojave, primarily NCR areas; the embassy included. "What are you doing here?"

"Sir?" Colonel Hsu responded, sounding genuinely confused. "I've been stationed here at the embassy for four days now, ever since General Oliver returned to Camp McCarran."

Oh, of course. Now he remembered. Oliver had sent Hsu to the embassy because he was, Crocker mentally quoted, "necessary for the security of NCR civilians." Crocker personally believed that Oliver just wanted the good colonel out his hair. It was not common knowledge, but Hsu had always been the runner-up for being in command of the Mojave campaign; only Oliver's ties to President Kimball allowed him to win out in the end.

"Of course," Crocker nodded, slumping over his desk once again and trying to hold his eyes open. He really needed sleep. "What may I do for you, colonel?"

Quickly clearing his throat, Hsu promptly replied, "I have the progress reports, ambassador." Waiting for acknowledgment before continuing - Crocker's only reply being a weak nod - Hsu put a stack of faded manila folders on the ambassador’s desk. "With the exception of those stationed here at the embassy, the Strip is completely void of any official NCR personnel; civilian or military. Freeside and the other outer New Vegas regions are still in chaos. Colonel Moore and Lieutenant Boyd are deploying teams around the city to recover any NCR stragglers."

Crocker only nodded to show he was listening. Internally, however, he was weeping for the current state of things and idly noting how either terribly bad or amusingly ironic it was Colonel Moore was dealing with this tense situation. He was leaning towards bad. "Is there any good news?" Crocker asked and, even to himself, he sounded desperate.

Hsu paused; never a good sign. Quickly gathering himself, Hsu finally said, "There is no more sign of the Legion. Major Polatli at Camp Forlorn Hope reports they have seen no new Legion activity in their area. Securitron patrols have also been moving into the areas around the dam and clearing it of any remnants. They've even taken control of the former Legion camp on the hill overlooking the dam and seem to be based there."

Crocker could, once again, only sigh. The only good news they have is that Securitrons, not the NCR, are clearing out the Legion. Another internal weep. Shaking his head slowly, Crocker only muttered, "How did it come to this?"

He was not really expecting an answer. So, when one came, Crocker was quiet surprised. "Ambassador," Hsu began, slowly and cautiously. "These things happen. While I may not be entirely pleased with the situation, I must admit it is better than a Legion victory at the dam."

Crocker looked up from his desk for the second time in an hour and focused his tired eyes of the Asian colonel. While Hsu was correct, an independent New Vegas was better than a Legion one; it had yet to be determined whether or not it was a good thing.  All things considered, Crocker was not holding his breathe.

"You seem rather calm about this, colonel," Crocker noted. He was not accusing the man of anything, he was just genuinely surprised. Being calm in this situation was unthinkable.

An almost unnoticeable smile worked at the colonel's lips before he said, "Calm is wh--" However, before he could finish, the door to the ambassador's office quickly opened up and in walked Crocker's aid and the embassy's receptionist, Liza O'Malley.

The once young and beautiful Caucasian women had developed a few stress marks and wrinkles of her own. Her once pale skin seemed to be discolored, as though she had not bathed in a couple of days. Her hair, which was once so prim-and-proper, was now loose in some places and flat in others; like she had tried to straighten it but given up half way. Her dress, having also once been clean, was covered in patches of wrinkles and had several stains from cafeteria food.

Apparently just realizing her mistake of barging in and having not cleaned herself up - he would not have punished her for it a week ago, he was not going to do anything about it now - she quickly closed the door and nodded her head to both the ambassador and the colonel before walking across the room and standing at the mid-way point.

With Hsu to the right of the desk and Crocker still hunched over it, Liza found herself meeting the eyes of both the ambassador and colonel. Quickly gathering herself, she sputtered out, "I'm sorry, ambassador, but there's another visitor for you."

Immediately, both Hsu and Crocker tensed. With the lock-down, the only people besides the NCR here at the embassy were those residing at the casinos and the Securitrons patrolling outside. Neither was expected and neither was another team from McCarran either.

Slowly collecting himself, Crocker leaned up in his seat and ignored the rather audible popping sounds from his back to focus his full attention of his receptionist. "Who is it, Miss O'Malley?"

"A Securitron," she began, heedless of the new tense atmosphere or the quick glance the colonel had sent to his hip mounted side-arm. "A Securitron and... something else."

"Something else?" Hsu questioned. If a New Vegas Securitron paid a visit to the NCR Embassy, it was likely a military matter. "Can you explain?"

Shifting her startled brown eyes towards the colonel, Liza nodded. "Just a few minutes ago, a Securitron with a smiley face showed up outside the Embassy flanked by about five more. The MPs stopped it and it said that both the ambassador and you, colonel, were invited to the Lucky 38 tomorrow morning."

Clearly, from his minutely widened eyes and the sudden stiffening of his spine, Hsu had not been expecting that. Crocker, himself, had not either. A meeting at the Lucky 38. Just a few months ago, when Mister House was still alive, Crocker would have leapt in joy at the news. Now, however, the mere thought of stepping into that place was... frightening, to say the least.

Apparently, the colonel was quicker at regaining his composure as he was the first to speak in reply. "You mentioned a 'something else,' what were you speaking of?"

Cautiously stepping back towards the door, the receptionist lightly answered, "The Securitron said that his employer wanted you to have a guide." Slowly opening the door, Liza motioned a hand into the room.

Crocker did not know what he was expecting, but internally he thought it was a little sad he flinched when an NCR trooper stepped into the room. Quickly recovering, Crocker began to say, "What is--" before all words died in his throat and he minutely forgot to breathe.

Because _floating_ in behind the NCR trooper was a sphere shaped object with a strange gray-blue colored paint job. Extended from various points on its body were antennas and -- Crocker noted with no small amount of concern -- there was a _functioning_ plasma firing conduit on its underside. He was reassured slightly by the second NCR trooper following in behind it.

However, all thoughts of safety and peace were dashed when everyone - unanimously in all but Colonel Hsu - flinched as the machine spoke:

" _Hello, Ambassador Crocker. I don't believe I've spoken to you since our meeting about the Boomers._ " The voice of the former courier, Solomon Abel, emitted from the floating sphere. " _I hope you don't mind me using ED-E to speaking with you, but I thought this would be better for all of us._ "

Surprising even himself and, miraculously, being the first one to responded, Crocker weakly croaked out, "B-better?"

" _Yes,_ " the distorted yet still surprisingly charming voice of the Courier replied. " _I believe we have matters to discuss, face-to-face, at the Lucky 38._ "

* * *

He was being shaken; he knew it just as much as he knew there was a reason for it, but whatever the reason he was determined to cling to his precious sleep time for as long as possible. Which was not for very long, apparently.

"Wake up!" The voice pierced through his muddled thoughts with such clarity that he actually flinched at their tone.

Slowly - ever so slowly - blue eyes opened to greet the waking world.

His vision was what he had managed to piece together even with his sleep deprived mind; tent walls above and _very_ spiky hair in the center of his vision.

Releasing a tired sigh, Arcade Israel Gannon groaned as he sat up from his uncomfortable bed before fixing the source of spiky hair with a weak glare and faintly muttering, "I'm up, I'm up!! Lots of important healing to do, after all."

Naturally, just as Arcade expected, Julie Farkas was entirely unaffected by his glare or his snarky comments -- she never was.

"Well I'm glad you're yourself, Arcade, but it's your shift," Julie retorted, resting her arms across her chest as her calm brown eyes fixed of him.

"Great, happy to help," Arcade sarcastically replied. Turning his eyes towards the entrance of the tent, Arcade noted with disappointment that it was still dark out; perhaps early dawn, yes, but still dark. Oh joy. Shifting his attention back towards the woman still standing beside his bed, Arcade asked, "How is it out there?"

"The same as it has been the last week," was her monotone reply and it took every ounce of Arcade's self-control not to sigh. Arcade had been proud to fight alongside his father's old squad of former Enclave soldiers in the defense of Hoover Dam; he was prouder still to have been an ally to the man - Solomon Abel - who was responsible for a New Vegas free from Mr. House, Caesar’s Legion, and the New California Republic.

However, upon his return after Daisy Whitman dropped him off outside New Vegas, he had been saddened to see the state of things in the aftermath. The only words that came _close_ to describing what he saw was anarchy and even that did not seem to fit entirely. Of course, a frenzied populace meant fighting and fighting meant wounded. When he finally made his way back to the Followers of the Apocalypse at the Old Mormon Fort he was saddened further. The wounded had apparently flooded into the fort, ranging from scrapped knees to gun-shot wounds; hangovers to near drug overdoes.

The Followers, for all their good intentions, simply did not have the supplies or the personnel to treat them all. Not even two minutes into the gate and Julie had rushed him off to the nearest group of badly injured patients. That was five days ago and he had not had time for anything other than his four-to-six hours of sleep a day since.

Turning his booted feet - he did not have the energy to take them off when he went to sleep - off the bed and sitting up, Arcade weakly rubbed his eyes with his knuckles before mumbling, "Did any more supplies get here?"

"A little," Julie replied. "Some Securitrons came back from the Strip with a few crates. We could use more, but it helps."

Nodding, Arcade yawned before saying, "That's good," and extended his hand towards his bedside table and lifting his black-rectangular framed glasses and slipping them on.

"Yes, it is," Julie Farkas agreed cautiously. "But don't you think it's strange?"

Blinking his eyes a few times to adjust to the new clarity, Arcade focused his gaze on the Followers’ leader. "What do you mean?"

Quickly glancing outside the tent before slowly lowering herself down onto a nearby chair, Julie finally answered, "All the support we're getting from the Strip. House ignored us, the Three Families don't care, and the N.C.R. did all their humanitarian work on their own. Now we get crates of medicine delivered by Securitrons every day. Why the sudden change?"

Arcade only smiled and shook his head before muttering a weak, "I have no idea." Which, really, was not a lie. He might have personally met and traveled with the new unofficial head of the Strip, but he did not really _know_ the man; no one did. He was intelligent, charismatic, and manipulative, yes, but he was also a dreamer and believed in helping people, but preferred large-scale help over the person-to-person variety; they were similar in that regard. Arcade recalled the man had once called the Followers "well intentioned, but misguided in their application." To this day, Arcade would not swear he knew what the man had entirely meant at the time.

On the other hand, Arcade was also aware that the man could be... perhaps not cruel, but... _pragmatic_. If killing one person saved ten, Arcade had no doubt Solomon Abel would pull the trigger himself with no hesitation. Yeah, sometimes he would mutter a soft "It's for the better," but he would never apologize for doing it.

Julie Farkas, meanwhile, was not satisfied with his reply. Once again, Arcade was not surprised. Arcade had returned on day two of New Vegas independence to chaos and awoke to day three with the Old Mormon Fort under the protection of Securitrons -- who, all the while, acted as though it was completely normal. Apparently, as Arcade learned latter, Solomon had secured the Followers' aid in an independent New Vegas shortly _before_ the Second Battle of Hoover Dam.

Julie fixed Arcade with a dubious - suspicious? - look for a few seconds before finally releasing a sigh and shaking her head. "Never mind. Forget about it."

Jumping at the chance to change the subject, Arcade asked, "So how are things out there? Hangovers, stab wounds? Come on, _please_ tell me there's a bullet hole I can start my morning off by rummaging around in."

As she often did when confronted by his darker jokes, Julie Farkas simply scoffed before waving her hand at him. "Not right now, I'm afraid. It's been a week; anyone from the NCR have either packed their bags and headed West or are over at Camp McCarran. We still get a few troopers here and there, but not much else."

"Maybe next time..." Arcade sarcastically drawled as he rose to his feet. Making his way towards the closed tent flap, he turned around and said, "Get some sleep. You look exhausted and your old age is starting to show."

Julie rolled her eyes easily, well accustomed to his quips. "Normally, I'd hit you one for that, but since I just came off a sixteen hour shift I'll leave it be." Waving him off, the spiky haired woman stood up and made her way toward the nearest bed and was asleep before Arcade could even form a witty retort.

Shaking his head slightly at the Followers’ leader's sleeping form before turning back toward the fluttering tent flap, Arcade quickly pressed the palms of his hands on his eyes, anxious to message any level of awareness into them. After giving up, Arcade only sighed and exited the tent.

He had a sixteen-some-odd-hour shift of his own to start, after all.

* * *

The Lucky 38 Hotel and Casino was one of the pre-war Las Vegas Strips’ most acclaimed tourist destinations. Before the Great War of 2077 it had not been known for anything special besides its architecture in the shape of a Roulette Wheel and the magnificent morning views of the Mojave Desert from the Cocktail Lounge. The reason for its acclaim was that staying at the Lucky 38 was considered a status symbol. Anyone who was anybody had been inside at least once.

Over two-hundred years and one nuclear apocalypse later and the Lucky 38 was known as something else: the symbol of power on the New Vegas Strip. At this very moment, as Dennis Crocker looked up at the design of the famous pre-war casino, he could only feel fear and trepidation.

" _No need to be so tense, Mr. Ambassador,_ " that charming and distorted voice sounded off behind him. " _The Lucky 38 is quite welcoming, I assure you._ "

Crocker glanced behind him and met the floating robot emissary of Solomon Abel "eye-to-eye". The little machine had waited just outside the NCR Embassy's front gate until early dawn. Crocker had done his best to clean up for his meeting, but there was only so much you could do with no water so he was fairly certain he was not emitting a very pleasant odor. Even colonel Hsu, who was also standing behind him with another three troopers, and seeming the picture of soldierly professionalism with his neatly pressed uniform, could do nothing to hide that fact. Either out of silent shame or politeness neither mentioned the other's lack of hygiene.

Shifting his weary eyes from the floating emissary to the colonel and back again, Crocker asked, "I understand there's supposed to be a meeting, but where at exactly?"

" _The Lucky 38, of course,_ " was Abel's reply via his floating emissary. " _For further details you need only wait. ED-E was your guide to the building. Someone else will bring you inside._ "

Before Crocker had time to ask what that meant, the large doors to the Lucky 38 building slowly creaked open as five Securitrons rolled out down the ramp leading towards the door.

The first four, with their gruff soldier faces, took up positions on the side of the ramp while the fifth, one with a white monochrome colored smiley face, stopped half-way down. As the Securitron came to a halt, it waved its bulky arms around in a gesture Crocker thought was meant to be interpreted as excitement before exclaiming, "Welcome! You can call me ' _Yes Man_ '!"

Crocker and his four man military escort only eyed the smiley-faced one wearily as two of the N.C.R. trooper’s fingers inched towards their Service Rifles.

"Now, now, there's no need for those!" Yes Man announced as the other four Securitrons turned to angle their arms/laser weapons toward the N.C.R. entourage. "You were _invited_ ~~! Do you know how special that makes you!? Why, no one beside the boss and his friends have been let into the Lucky 38 in years!"

Even surprising himself, Crocker decided to take the initiative and took a cautions step forward, holding his palms up in a sign of peace as he said, "We're just here to see Mister Abel. I assume you're our guide?"

"Exactly!" Yes Man cheered happily as both the Securitrons and NCR troopers relaxed. "It's my job to take you to the boss. He's up there!" the Securitron motioned one clawed hand towards the Lucky 38 building.

"Wonderful," Dennis Crocker voiced, all the while hoping he did not sound as relieved to everyone else as he did himself. "Just take us to him and we can get this meeting underway."

"Not so fast there," Yes Man held out his arms parallel to his body, as if blocking their path. "I'm sorry, but the invitation was only for the good Ambassador and esteemed Colonel Hsu, I'm afraid. Everyone else will just have to wait outside. I hope that won't be a problem!?"

Quickly darting his eyes worriedly in the direction of colonel Hsu, Crocker visually asked the good colonel for answers. Hsu's only response was a light nod of the head and a slight pat on his side-armed pistol. Nodding his head briefly in response, Crocker turned towards the smiley-face Securitron before saying, "N-no, that won't be a problem."

"Wonderful!" Yes Man chirped in response as the floating eye-like-bot -- called ED-E, Crocker mentally supplied -- let loose a few quick beeping sounds before rushing off towards the Lucky 38's doors. "Mister Abel is _really_ looking forward to meeting with you both! Let's not keep him waiting anymore, shall we!? Follow me!"

Without further preamble, the Securitron whirled around on its solitary wheel and began its quick ascent towards the door of the Lucky 38.

Dennis Crocker, with one last confirmation glance towards the N.C.R. colonel that was returned with a comforting nod, took a deep breath and followed slowly, colonel Hsu just a few steps behind him.

For the first time in history, representatives of the New California Republic would be entering the Lucky 38.

 

**TO BE CONTINUED...**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crocker proved to be my favorite part of this chapter. Was much more fun to write than I was expecting. Anyway, if you liked this and are interested in more, make sure to leave a comment and Kudos.
> 
> This is an older story of mine I have been going over and touching up, so the next five-ish chapters are basically done short of that editing process. If you want to see them, make sure to let me know.


End file.
